


Built on Love and Dreams

by nhpw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergent, Childhood Memories, Destiel are Happy Daddies, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Human Castiel, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-11
Updated: 2016-12-11
Packaged: 2018-09-07 22:58:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8819452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nhpw/pseuds/nhpw
Summary: Dean's not used to people making good on their promises.But Castiel isn't most people, and Dean really thought this year, this Christmas, would be different.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the Holiday Mixtape challenge. Inspiration behind the piece is the song "I'll Be Home For Christmas":
> 
> I'll be home for Christmas  
> You can count on me  
> Please have snow and mistletoe  
> And presents under the tree
> 
> Christmas Eve will find me  
> Where the love light beams  
> I'll be home for Christmas  
> If only in my dreams
> 
> Merry Christmas, SPN Family!

It’s like a bad dream.

_ No _ , Dean corrects himself as he paces the nursery floor, bouncing and  _ shhh _ ing and trying to keep his own emotions quelled because he knows his daughter can feel them,  _ it’s like deja vu _ .

Because he’s been here before - promised that they’d be together on Christmas, promised that they’d be a family, that they’d be together. He’s been here  _ a lot _ before.

And he’s always been let down.

He’d thought, stupidly, like a goddamn idiot that he could leave that level of holiday disappointment in the past. They’d had a few successful Christmases in the Bunker, even, with Sam and Eileen and Mary… hell, even Claire Novak had stayed long enough to down an eggnog.

But now here they are. Christmas Eve - their first Christmas Eve since the birth of their daughter, the first Christmas Eve under the roof of this home that has a real roof covered in real snow, with a real mailbox out front and hell, Dean had even hung icicle lights on the trim outside, he’d been so excited.

But he’s cold and alone, save for the bundle now snoring lightly on his shoulder.

He lays her softly in her crib, kisses her brow, and turns toward her window to gaze out into their backyard. A real backyard. Dean could barely remember having one as a child, but now… well.

He leans heavy arms on the sill. “Dammit, Cas,” he huffs, eyes gazing heavenward… not that he thinks anyone up there is going to listen to any prayer that passes his lips. Not even on Christmas Eve. He’s not that disillusioned; the angels, whoever might be running the show up there now, had certainly disowned him when Castiel chose to fall, to give up his grace… if not before.

Probably before.

“Much as I like havin’ you where you’re at, Castiel, it sure would help things if you could hear my voice right now.” He laughs softly, sadly. “I must be the only guy on the planet who prays to the man who shares his bed.”

There’s no answer, of course.

Dean leans his forehead against the cold glass of the window pane for a beat before pushing off the sill with both arms and exiting the nursery.

It’s quiet, too quiet, and as he descends from the second floor to the foyer, he acts on impulse to check the stability of the Devil’s Trap under the rug at the front door.

Then he putters to the kitchen, where he grabs a beer bottle by the neck, opens it, and takes a long draw before proceeding to the family room.

Their tree - 7 feet of real evergreen - illuminates the room from its corner against a picture window that looks out on their front yard. Dean comes to a stop in front of it.

He needs to pull the gifts out and spread them about, like a good middle-income-suburban dad, but he can’t motivate himself to do so. This was something he was supposed to do with Cas. His  _ husband _ , goddammit, who had sworn he’d be back in time for Christmas.

But here Dean stands, nearly 10:00 on Christmas Eve, alone in front of the Christmas tree.

In its shadow, he suddenly feels very small… like he’s once again 10 years old, and once again waiting for someone who’d promised they’d come… who will never do so.

But this isn’t his father. It’s Castiel. Castiel, former angel of the Lord, who’d cast off everything for Dean, who’d always been there without question, from the very beginning - as a friend, a warrior, a brother… as a lover, then a husband, and now a father. And Dean has every reason to believe that Castiel won’t fail him now. Not on their daughter’s first Christmas, of all days.

He approaches the tree and fingers a fragile ornament - angel wings. His thumb caresses the object as Dean coddles it in his open palm and suppresses a chill that runs up his spine, on its way to becoming a choked sob, because with one press of his thumb to the molded clay wings, he can’t fight the memory anymore - the memory of the moment that he let Castiel go, with a promise and a prayer.

 

_ “Castiel! Now listen, three years ago, you know I wouldn’t’ve stood in your way when you got a bee in your bonnet like this, but things are different now. You’re not…” _

_ “An angel anymore. Thanks for the reminder.” He shrugged into his trench coat even as he shot Dean a look that said there wasn’t room for argument on this. _

_ “No-- no, that is not-- do not put words in my mouth.” Cas’ brow creased, but before Dean could offer an explanation for the idiom, his husband rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Cas…” _

_ “Dean.” It’s a plea nearly as old as their relationship itself, just the name, and a steady gaze. “Do you trust me?” _

_ “With my life.” The question was probably rhetorical, but. Well. _

_ “Then when I say that this is important, and I say that I’ll be fine, and that I will be back home to you and to our child in time for Christmas… why do you not believe me?” _

_ There wasn’t any argument for that, really. Dean could try, but it would be fruitless. “Tell me there’s no one else who could do it,” he says, voice cracking on the request. _

_ “You know that I wouldn’t go otherwise.” Dean’s arms grew heavy with the weight of Castiel, who stepped into his personal space and encircled his waist with familiar arms. “You also know better than anyone else that Lucifer is my personal responsibility. If I say that I must go, Dean, and leave the safety of our home and the comfort of your arms, then it’s because I simply have no other choice.” _

 

It’s a remarkable thing, Dean thinks now, to stand and curse the Devil on Christmas Eve.

He takes another long draw from the bottle in his hand.

Cas has been gone for two days, and he texted this morning, but only to say he was fine - not with any news of his location or when he’d be back home. Still, Dean takes his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans now and stares at it.

Before he thinks better of the plan, he punches up Cas’ number. The phone rings once. Twice.

Goes to voicemail.

His husband has cut off his call.

Dean’s caught somewhere between offended and concerned.

He hesitates before pulling up Sam’s number, and this time, his brother answers on the second ring. “Dude,” he says by way of greeting, “It’s Christmas Eve.”

“Yeah, uh, sorry.” He can hear his nephew whining in the background - something about macaroni and cheese, and  _ ugh _ , Dean’s not really looking forward to those days at all - and pinches the bridge of his nose before responding. “I just, uh. Any chance you’ve heard from Cas lately?”

Suddenly there’s a rush of air and then background silence - his brother has moved into a different room. “Are-- is everything OK? Did you guys have a fight?”

“What? No, no no. No. He, uh. Had to go out a couple of days ago. Lucifer.” A wave of his beer-holding hand through the air, obviously not for his brother’s benefit. “I haven’t, uh. Heard from him.”

“You want us to take Mary so you can--”

“No. No. It’s Christmas Eve, it’s her  _ first  _ Christmas Eve, and this is how we roll, right? This is what we do? We’re hunters. Sometimes we work holidays.”

“Not in years, Dean.”

“I know. Just. He promised.”

“Well if Castiel says he’ll be somewhere, Dean… you and I both know he’ll be there. Unless.”

“I didn’t call you for ‘unless’, Sam.”

“Yeah. Um. Sorry. Where’d he go?”

“Minnesota.” Dean scratches his head as his daughter begins to cry upstairs. “I gotta go.”

“Cas?”

“Mary.”

“Understood. OK, look. I’ll cover his tracks, make a few calls, see if I can figure out where he went and whether there’s any buzz on the radar. Call you if I hear anything.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

“Yeah. Hey, Dean?”

“Hmmm?”

“He’s gonna be all right.”

Dean sighs. “Yeah,” is the best he can manage. He ends the call and clutches his beer bottle in one hand, his phone in the other, and stands stark-still, staring at the worn floorboards under his feet.

Closes his eyes, clenches his fists… a memory seeps unbidden from the back of his mind. A Christmas Eve, just like this. Waiting on a loved one, just like this. With a baby. Just like this.

 

_ “It’ll be OK, Sammy. Dad’s gonna be back, you’ll see.” He wasn’t sure why he said the words when he didn’t really believe them, but his brother’s eyes were warm and trusting, and Dean, for all of his six years of life, could appreciate their innocence. _

_ “Santa?” _

_ Dean smiled sadly. Santa. When had Santa ever been even a hint of a concept to him? He barely remembered that Christmas when he was three… the memory faded with every passing year. _

_ “Yeah, Sammy. Santa will come, and Daddy, too.” He took his brother’s chubby hand and led him to one of two hotel beds covered in worn duvets. “You’ll see. I promise.” _

_ The toddler smiled, trusting, accepting, believing his big brother’s words, and that made Dean a bit sad because he wasn’t even sure he believed them himself. “Go on to sleep now, Sammy.” He pulled the covers up around them both and pressed a kiss into the soft baby hair snuggled under his chin. “Merry Christmas.” _

_ “Ni-night Dean.” A soft sigh, and then steady warm breath against Dean’s neck. _

_ Dean waited another half hour before getting up out of bed and going to his duffle bag. He rooted through it for two soft objects he’d picked up a couple of weeks back from a little shop in a forgettable town while their father worked a case. The first was a bag of saltwater taffy; he opened it and shoved one into his mouth before filling a questionably clean sock with the rest. _

_ The second, a teddy bear, he’d snatched out of a bin of Toys for Tots donations, justifying the theft because when it came down to it, his brother definitely qualified as a recipient. _

_ He couldn’t wrap it, but he propped it up next to the sock full of candy, and then crawled back into bed, folding his body around his brother’s for comfort and warmth. _

_ In the morning, he wasn’t surprised that their father hadn’t come back. But Sam was alight with joy and hope as he rejoiced in the fact that Santa had come. _

_ And that was all that mattered. _

 

Dean throws his phone across the room before he can think better of it, and he hears something crack.

Better the phone than himself, he thinks, and turns to take the stairs two at a time up to the nursery, where he lifts his hysterical daughter from her crib. “Shhh… baby girl… it’s gonna be OK. Daddy’s here. Daddy’s got you.” Instinctively he begins to hush and bounce and sway in an established rhythm he knows will quell her cries. “What’s the story? You just lonely?” He smiles down at her, but it’s a sad smile. “Me too,” he whispers, and considers it personal growth that he can even admit as such. “But hey. You’re a Winchester. And first thing you gotta know about being a Winchester is…” He lets out a small sigh, and she’s staring up at him now, a reflection of his own emerald eyes, “Is we learn to live with disappointment. We don’t get used to it. But we learn to live with it.” He kisses her forehead, and she gurgles something on a laugh that makes his smile a little more genuine. “All right. What say we get some shut eye, huh?” He shifts her head to his shoulder and finds his place in her rocking chair.

“Hmm. Look at that. It’s snowing. Here I thought it was gonna be a green Christmas for your first. Ahh… well, your Papa always has had a soft spot for a snowy Christmas, so maybe there’s hope yet after all, huh? In my dreams anyway.” The soft, silent back-and-forth calms them both, and it’s not long after Mary starts snoring on his shoulder that Dean finds he can’t keep his eyes open another second.

When he wakes again, a few minutes or hours later, he thinks he might still be in a dream, or a memory… but no. A few blinks of his eyes and he realizes he’d been startled awake instinctively by a change in his environment, conditioned by years of hunting the supernatural to respond in less than a heartbeat to anything that went bump in the night.

This isn’t a bump, though. Not really.

Just…  _ warmth _ .

“Cas?”

He winces at the kink in his neck as he turned his face upward, and sure enough, standing with one hand still on the back of the rocking chair is the angel who fell for him.

“Merry Christmas, Love.” Castiel isn’t overly fond of pet names; it’s not his style. So when they do let slip, like now, Dean takes them deeply to heart.

“You’re really here?”

A raise of eyebrows, shrug of shoulders, a gesture Dean knows from years of experience is an indication that Cas feels it should be obvious. “I promised.”

Dean just blinks up in wonder. Of course.

_ We had an appointment. _

_ I always come when you call. _

_ I’ll go with you. _

_ I could go with you. _

_ I’m always with you, Dean. Even when I’m not. _

_ I love you. _

_ I’m here. _

_ I’ve always been here _ .

“Merry Christmas, Cas.” His voice is raw from sleep, but Cas smiles and nods toward their sleeping child.

“Your idea? Or hers?”

Dean considers it for a beat. “Mutual agreement,” he says, but then with a soft groan of effort he stands. Castiel holds his arms out to accept their sleeping child, and Dean takes him up on the offer, kissing the baby’s forehead on the pass between her fathers’ arms. He watches as Castiel, former angel of the Lord, former warrior of heaven, the strength and conviction that pulled Dean from Hell, the steady rock who’d never forsaken him… cradles their daughter,  _ their  _ daughter, on Christmas Eve, rocks her gently, kisses her forehead, and lays her out in her crib.

As he straightens, Dean swears that the shadow of his body and arms on the bedroom wall, lit by the glow of Mary’s nightlight… for just a second, they look like wings.

He’s captivated for the space of a blink, and then the moment passes and Castiel steps up into Dean’s personal space, encircles his waist with gentle arms, tilts his head up for a kiss.

Dean gives a peck and pulls back to share a meaningful glance before going in deeper, harder, as though he’s still trying to convince himself that Cas is  _ really here _ .

They leave their daughter’s doorframe and Dean takes Cas’ hand in a loose hold to lead him down to their family room.

When they stop again, it’s in front of their Christmas tree, and they’re bathed in the soft white glow of hundreds of tiny twinkling lights. They turn to face each other, their profiles parallel to the tree. “Dean,” Cas says finally, a bit sadly, and he reaches up to cup Dean’s right cheek. “I know what you were afraid of. And I know why. And I can’t promise you that we’ll never be apart on days that are significant in some way. But I can promise, and I  _ will  _ promise, that if I promise you I will be somewhere, then I’ll be there.”

“I know.”

Cas angles for a kiss, and it’s brief, soft. “No,” he says sadly. “You don’t. But it’s not your fault. And lucky for you… Dean Winchester… I don’t take it personally, and I’m happy to spend the rest of my very human life… proving it to you.”

Dean has no words, really. He closes his mouth onto Cas’ in a kiss, this time deep, searching. “It’s snowing, you know.”

“I should. I was the one driving in it.”

“Hmmm…” Dean smiles and gives in to the warmth of the embrace and his spouse’s closeness. He goes in for another kiss, but stops to ponder with a slight tilt of his head and then pulls back to look into Cas’ eyes. “Have we ever kissed under the mistletoe?”

The adorable look of confusion is enough to turn Dean’s smile of contentment into a slightly larger one of bemusement. “I don’t believe so.”

“Hmmm…” Dean makes for a chaste kiss before pulling away to lead Cas by the hand into their bedroom, but he stops in the doorway. “I bought it, but I never put it up because… I didn’t want to…” A clearing of the throat and he shakes his head before leaving Cas just long enough to reach into his nighstand drawer and remove the small green plant. Then, grinning, he holds it up, waving it a bit as if it were a jingle bell and then holding it above his head.

Cas just stares at him, head cocked to the side and confused expression on his face, and Dean waits until he can’t hold in the laughter anymore. Then he closes the distance between their bodies, and then their lips. “See,” he says, right hand still poised and holding the tuft of mistletoe above their heads, “It’s a tradition.”

“Kissing under a plant is a human holiday tradition.” There’s no question mark at the end, as is often the case when Castiel is trying to understand something peculiar about the human species.

“Yes. Well,  _ this  _ plant. It’s a mistletoe. And.” Dean shrugs, and pecks at his husband’s lips again before bringing down the plant. “I’ll explain it some other time,” he imparts, and then tosses the sprig onto his bureau and takes purchase of Castiel’s lips with his own. “Merry Christmas, Cas.”

“Merry Christmas, Dean.”

“Thank you for coming home to me.”

In the stillness that follows, Castiel takes on a thoughtful expression, and Dean’s not ashamed to admit to himself that watching Cas process his thoughts is one of Dean’s favorite hobbies.

At last he speaks, though he sounds like he’s still lost in thought as he does so. “Dean?”

“Hmmm?”

“Thank you for  _ being  _ my home.”


End file.
